


Day 4 (Date Night)

by chucksauce



Series: 30-Day OTP Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Date Night, I mean to be fair I wrote this the week before that premiered, M/M, challenges are issued and accepted, crack!, handjobs, making out at the theater, other naughtiness in the theater, so i made them go watch The Hobbit, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:27:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stayed engrossed for the majority of the movie, and didn’t offer much in the way of commentary, or even really register any of what Sherlock muttered in the darkness. That is, until Sherlock became decidedly bored with the entire affair and decided to act upon John’s greatest weakness: his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 4 (Date Night)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, god, I'm pretty sure this is just crack. The prompt was obviously going to the movies/having a date night, so I decided they should go see the Hobbit (because I wrote this one at the beginning of December and have had trepidation about posting it but here goes nothing). All right I'm just going to stop waffling and post the damn thing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

“Remind me again why you’re dragging me along to see this?” Sherlock huffed, a puff of warm breath condensing in the air before his face. 

“We are between cases. And we haven’t been on a date in ages,” John answered, handing the taller man his ticket. 

“The Hobbit. Hobbit. This sounds ridiculous. What’s it even about?” Sherlock stuffed his ticket into his pocket. Through the innate magic that is Sherlock hailing a cab, one arrived only moments later and whisked them away to the theater. 

The theater was dark, and the men found a seat toward the back, which worked well for both of them, though for different reasons: John wouldn’t have to strain his neck to see the screen, and Sherlock was less likely to be punched by irate audience members for his running commentary. 

“Bilbo looks like...” Sherlock mused at one point, looking up from his phone after John nudged him. He looked over at John, frowned, and shook his head, and went back to his Blackberry. 

John stayed engrossed for the majority of the movie, and didn’t offer much in the way of commentary, or even really register any of what Sherlock muttered in the darkness. That is, until Sherlock became decidedly bored with the entire affair and decided to act upon John’s greatest weakness: his neck. 

He began simply. Sherlock leaned down to tie his shoe, which gave him a plausible (and hardly remarkable) reason to change his upright position when he sat back up. This allowed him to drape his arm across the back of John’s seat. Of course John was so intent upon the screen that if he noticed, he didn’t show it. 

He traced his fingertips, as gently as possible, along John’s neck at the edge of his collar.  This earned him a few rapid blinks. That was fine. It was an opening volley, and Sherlock didn’t expect immediate results. That would ruin the pleasure of the experiment. 

So he adjusted the angle of his fingertips, and grazed his nails vertically along the sternocleidomastoid, that thick muscle that ran from beneath the ear to the clavicle bone, and for his troubles he was rewarded with a deep intake of breath and another double-blink. 

 _Interesting,_ Sherlock thought. Usually that one was good at least for a smirk, or at best, eye contact. 

He moved on. Typically, when his thumbnail traced along the helix of John’s ear, dipped behind to stroke the conchal angle, John would clench his teeth and close his eyes. If he was especially receptive, he might even lean his head toward the sensation, which was almost an equivalent to, “Yes, please, more of that.” 

But this movie’s distracting powers were impressive: John’s eyes fluttered closed momentarily, and he gulped. A smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth, and he scrubbed his thumb along his fingers, as if fighting the impulse to tighten into a fist. In the stark relief of the movie-light, Sherlock noted that his pulse jumped in his throat, and he continued. 

Shifting as silently as possible, he leaned toward John and brushed his lips against the helix of the ear closest to him. He was quite pleased with the sharp intake of breath, and whispered, “John.” 

“Mm?” John didn’t blink, his eyes glued to the screen. That was fine. 

“May I?” 

“Mm?” came the man’s terse reply. 

“Please?” 

“Christ.” 

It wasn’t exactly a yes, but John was not one to hesitate in telling Sherlock ‘no’ at every available opportunity... So, Sherlock could work with that. 

He slid his hand away from John’s ear, and nestled his fingers down into the collar of John’s shirt. He slid his free hand up John’s thigh from the knee, palm and fingertips pressing slightly, squeezing as he neared the groin. John shifted forward in his seat, his knees falling open. Now that was a _yes_. 

Some terrific sort of skirmish clashed and flashed onscreen, a needless pantomime of sword-play. Utterly ridiculous. Someone of that small creature’s stature couldn’t possibly hope to fend off that poorly prosthetized actor pretending to be what--a goblin? 

Sherlock slid his hand from John’s thigh to groin, and _Ah._ John’s eyes drooped and closed with the acceptance of his distraction. Sherlock kneaded the bulge expanding in John’s pants, and in return, John bucked his hips ever-so-slightly, a nonverbal plea. So Sherlock continued. The calculations flashed across his mental marquee: _If I continue at this pace, and John allows me to do so, it is reasonable to assume I can either distract him so far as to drag me to the toilet for the remainder of this trite movie, or run the risk of ejaculating right where he sits within the next fifteen minutes. I can work with these odds._

And work with them he did. 

He stroked his partner, varying in pressure and speed, until John was wound up tight, an E-string begging for the bow. 

“As I see it,” Sherlock whispered against the antihelix of John’s ear, all lips and breath and the deep rumble of his voice, “you are faced with one of two options: drag me to the toilets to have your way with me, or prepare for a cab ride home with a cold, sticky mess.” 

Sherlock cupped John’s shaft through the the fabric of his trousers, his thumb positioned on the glans _._ From personal experience he knew that by this point, there would be a lovely wet spot against the front of his pants, where pre-ejaculate had leaked out. He released his grip just enough to slide down, palm John’s testicles through the fabric, his middle finger stretching just enough to graze the “sweet spot:” a particular favorite spot of his, actually. 

If one were to diagram the buttocks of John H. Watson, and quarter each globe via horizontal and vertical bisection, the bottom interior quadrants of each cheek would prove, indeed, to be the most sensitive. If, then, one subdivided further, the “line” caused by the outermost protrusion of the curve of his buttocks in this quadrant was invariably the most sensitive of this area. This was Sherlock’s theory, as he had on many occasions tested its usefulness in causing John to gibber swear words incoherently (and usually this one caused a string along the lines of “Sweet tapdancing Christ for fuck’s sake already!”). 

This time was no exception. He felt John’s jaw clench, the man’s breath stilled in his chest, and John raised his arm to slide his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. This was excellent. He was going to drag John to the bathrooms. 

 _Three…_  

John drew in a breath. 

 _Two…_  

He moved his fingers slightly, playing in Sherlock’s hair. 

 _One…_  

“Sherlock,” John whispered. 

“Hm?” Sherlock fought to keep from grinning. Not only would he be exempt from the rest of this movie, he would also, as John usually phrased it, “get off.” Definitely a win-win situation. 

“Sherlock, could, um,” John paused, distracted. Something flashy happened on the screen, and then he continued in his terse whisper: “Could you possibly… um. Go down on me?” 

 _Unexpected third option, could be problematic._  

“Do you think that’s wise, John? So many people in the theater with us? You know how noisy you get…” Sherlock nibbled on John’s ear again for good measure. 

“No one will know. We’re the only people on this row, and we’re all the way in the corner. Everyone is facing away, looking at the screen.” 

“But the noise…?” _Surely_ , Sherlock thought, _John is not in his right mind. Is it possible he’s suffering from a borderline personality disorder I have not yet noticed, one which propels him toward exhibitionist tendencies he has thus far avoided?_  

“I’ll manage.” John’s eyes never left the screen, not once the entire time they’d had this barely whispered conversation. 

A thought occurred to Sherlock: _It is entirely possible that he wants to see this movie enough that he doesn’t want to leave the theater (either to duck into the toilets or while having to deal with ejaculate in his pants) until this movie is finished. It is also possible that he believes I won’t, in fact, want to perform in public. This would do nicely to put the volley back in my court while he sidesteps the situation. Is that a challenge, or an utterly oblique attempt at delaying the orgasm and finishing the movie?_  

Then another thought occurred to the genius: _In any event, John gets to watch his movie. That leaves me with the tedium of sitting through this movie, or the challenge of managing to felate him for the remainder of this movie, save a few minutes before credits roll in which to collect himself before everyone begins shuffling around. That gives me…_ And here he did some quick calculations in his head, then continued, _fourty-three minutes and fifty-two seconds to occupy myself._  

 _But can he actually last that long? He’s already terribly close. Oh, this is quite a conundrum…_  

In real-time, this entire internal monologue spanned a matter of seconds. So when Sherlock finally spoke aloud, his words did not quite match the thread of conversation that John perceived was happening. 

“Well played, John Watson.” 

“Hm?”

“I accept your challenge.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know, I know. Forty-five minute blowjob. I don't even know. Can I blame sleep-deprivation?
> 
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> 
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